A cold treachery - Charles Todd [57]
“Apple Tree Farm. We'd asked there, and looked at all the pens.”
“And on the shoulder of the hill—which one is that?”
“It's called South Farm. Nothing.”
After a moment Drew went on. “Can you see the sheepfold well beyond the farm, on the rising land of what we call The Bones?”
“Where?”
“To the south, now, at an angle to the Elcott barn.”
“Yes, now I see it.”
“That's where Elcott kept his sheep in winter storms. Just under Scoat Ledge. We went over that bit with care, walking an arm's length from each other. If the lad went south, we never found any sign of him.”
“Where were Elcott's sheep?”
“Either Elcott or the old bellwether took most of the flock to the safety of the pen. Some few are scattered about the ground, taking shelter where they could. But there might not have been time to find them all. That's not unusual. It'll take days to collect them again, but they know, the sheep, how to find the flock for themselves. They aren't stupid, whatever people say.”
How easy it would be, Rutledge realized, for the boy to burrow into the snow next to a ewe. One more white lump among so many scattered across the landscape.
But if that had saved Josh on that terrifying Sunday night, what had become of him when the danger had passed? Why hadn't he made his way the next morning to the police or to someone he trusted? What had made him so terrified of going for help?
“Tell me about the sheep,” he said as he followed his guide higher, his breath coming hard as he climbed in the cold air. If the animals could survive, it might be a lesson well worth learning.
“What's there to tell?” Drew was barely winded. “They lamb in late April or early May, when the grass in the low pastures is greener and someone can keep an eye on them. Shearing is in July. The cur-dog—that's a cross between collie and sheepdog—helps bring them in and take them out.”
“The sheep runs—are they close by each farm, fell land connected by sight and footpaths to the yard? Where a boy, even a city child, could come to know them well?”
The older man chuckled. “The fell that goes with a farm is where time and custom set it. I walk three miles to the start of mine. Elcott's runs behind the house and then skips to the saddle over there. A drift road runs between.”
Had the boy found the drift road?
Rutledge watched his guide. The man seemed to find his footing with ease, as if he could peer through the heavy snow crust to the familiar track he knew was there. He himself was not always as lucky. Above all, the energy needed to force a way through the snow as they climbed depleted his stamina. But then, they were going straight up, rather than following the contour, and that counted for much.
Higher still, as Rutledge was catching his second wind, he could see a thin trail of smoke coming from what appeared to be no human habitation. But then as his eyes learned to pick out details, to recognize the line of shadow, the difference in how sunlight touched the snow on a roof, he asked, “Whose farm is that?”
“The Ingerson farm. Too far for a child to reach. Still, the party searching there roused Maggie. They got the rough side of her tongue for their trouble.”
Ingerson. Rutledge could picture the map on the kitchen table, hear the voice of the messenger reporting, watch his hand tick off each farm. “Yes, all right, I know who she is. And over there—the Peterson farm. There's the Haldnes house . . .” He went on, giving life to the flat surface of the map, seeing for himself how the land lifted and changed, how the shape of the fells determined where men could farm or run their sheep. Where a boy could run.
If you could see the skyline, see the way the great ridges ran and knew how they dipped and changed their shape with distance, Rutledge thought, you could find your way. I've done it, walking in daylight on summer tracks I remembered. But at night, in a fierce storm . . .
Drew was watching Rutledge's face. “Aye, you begin to see.”
Rutledge turned and looked back to Urskdale. The hotel was only a dot on the streaked